


occupational hazards

by sweetwatersong



Category: How to Train Your Dragon (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Crossover, Drama, Families of Choice, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-07
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-02-20 06:51:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2419127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetwatersong/pseuds/sweetwatersong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They tell stories of a dragon in the islands by a sea. When a mission brings Clint and Natasha there, they learn those legends are true.</p><p>Or, "It followed us back to the Tower. I'd ask if we could keep it, but I think it's keeping us."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. snowfall

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Crazy4Orcas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crazy4Orcas/gifts).



> Dedicated to crazy4orcas, whose initial suggestion of "Clint and Natasha and a friendly dragon" turned into a whole series on its own. (With the added help of a request every time I asked for prompts.) <3
> 
> This was started prior to HTTYD 2's release, and can be considered as AU or canon to that as you wish.
> 
> Any applicable warnings will be listed with the appropriate section.

"So the good news is, the dragon’s on our side," Clint says into the SHIELD sat phone, staring. "The other news is, there’s a dragon."

   

_centuries earlier, more than a decade after HTTYD_ ; warning: gory scenes referenced in passing

"We can protect them!"

"No, we can’t," Hiccup says, and there is a wealth of resignation in his face, of grief in his voice. The hand upon your snout is warm and comforting, and already beginning to feel like goodbye. "Look at those sailors. We can explain about the dragons, we can keep them from going back, we could even kill them - but more ships are going to keep coming, and next time it could be Meatlug, or Hookfang, or Toothless."

On the dock below the slumped body of the Nadder is a gruesome and silent testament to his words, white bone and blue scales glittering in the sun with a deceptive liveliness. It is not Stormfly, not a named dragon, but the tears and fury in Astrid’s face are the visible proof its death has hit too close to home.

As one, the villagers are shunning the foreigners who do not understand their demand that the body be returned to the sea, that the slain dragon be at peace. Instead the sailors continue to strip the spikes away, chattering in their lilting language with an excitement that makes dragon and human stomachs alike turn. The gulls cry, the waves roll onwards, and a dragon killed for hide and hype lies rotting on the deck.

"We can’t keep them from coming, but we can keep them from hurting our friends." And you know what his decision is, what he will pronounce, this scrawny boy turned chieftain who will not kill his own kind - and will not kill yours, either.

"I think you’ll have to go, buddy," your human tells you, his heart breaking and yet hidden by the softness of his voice. "You’re not safe here anymore."

There is an outcry from the riders, a roaring from the dragons, a protest physical and verbal and guttural against the idea, and you sit quietly in the storm because you know what your response will be.

The dragons will stay through three more winters, until the slaughter is too much and the portal takes them away. The villagers will be left broken, quiet, mourning a life that once was unimaginable and now cannot be reclaimed. Berk will go on without the dragons - but Hiccup will never go without you.

You are a Night Fury, with claws and wings and fire that would split the skies and heavens, and you will hold onto this world with all you have.

(There are no humans, no Berk, no Hiccup on any other.)

 

_an unknown amount of time later_

They have left. They have all left, in their own ways: through portals, through pyres, through bones long turned to dust in the ground of these islands. But the trees that scraped a life from the poor soil feasted on those nutrients, prospered despite fire, and still to this day send shoots and leaves of brilliant green upwards to the sun. They are ancient and gnarled and shelters against the wind, protectors of this wild place; the last and contented witnesses to the ages that have passed before.

You settle in their midst, hidden but for your eyes, and begin another vigil.

They have left, but you remain, and these islands are guarded even now.

 

_now_

They come by ships, sleek and silent in the ocean spray, and there is a predatory grace to them that is reminiscent of your own. You watch from the mountains as they enter, as they walk on the craggy heights and slip into caves that once held bones and dragons there. You watch the tight-sealed boxes, the sour sailors with curling beards, the dark shapes and hidden fires.

And you remember when men walked these islands, many years ago, with treasure and beards and fires of their own.

They come, and go, and you watch from the pines and the night sky, for the lives of men were precious to your rider, and you need not stop them yet.

Then two come, with swift steps and quiet hands, with guns in their hands and a light in their eyes, and although you do not believe in ghosts you cannot help but stare when they slide across the hillside, murmur to each other. Here is a fire you recognize, here is a power not trapped in gold or powder, and their speech is soft but audible to draconian ears.

You know the look of agony, on faces long remembered, and there is a fury in the woman’s face to chill the hearts of Timberjacks and Thunderdrums alike. There is a gun against the archer’s head, a gun in the redhead’s hands, and their speech of stolen goods (the blood you smelled on some night winds, the rot of half-dead creatures) recalls docks and dragons, and a day passed long ago.

The lives of men are precious, but the time to fight has come.

You crouch, and breathe, and leap off - and the wind is crisp and cutting, the scent of a new day dawning.

 

_occupational hazards_

"So the good news is, the dragon’s on our side," Clint says into the SHIELD sat phone, staring. "The other news is, there’s a dragon."

"For once, I actually can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic, Barton. Are you lying through your teeth?" Tony asks on the other end, but his tone tells them both that he knows Clint is, in fact, telling the absolute truth. "This isn't some SHIELD code for something else entirely, we're talking about a living, fire-breathing, scaly monstrosity kind of dragon."

"I wish," he replies, because the black creature is currently romping around Natasha like an overly friendly kitty - a kitty that could squash, rend, or fry them in the drop of a hat. He can still feel the blast of heat from a blue fireball not ten minutes ago, the one that roasted the Swede holding a pistol to his head. Natasha hasn’t made any subtle comments about eyebrows yet, so he could still have both of them; then again, she has been slightly distracted. Because, you know, dragon.

It’s gonna be an action report for SHIELD’s ‘Fact or Fiction’ wall, if nothing else. The dragon had come out of the snow-laden spruces like a silent death, a shadow that swept across the field and brought down four of the smugglers in its initial glide. They had all gawked at it, Clint from his position as hostage and Natasha a hundred feet away and the criminals they had been sent to ferret out; just, there really were no words when a _dragon_ appeared. It had struck the ground in a spray of white before turning to look at them with piercing, unquestionably intelligent green eyes; then its mouth had opened, fangs gleaming in the gray light, and spit _fire_ -

Clint tucks the phone against his shoulder and brushes his fingers over his forehead, gaze still trained on the massive and decidedly _not_ mythological animal now letting Natasha examine its wings.

Yeah, no, Stark is never going to let him forget being eyebrow-less. Or finding a dragon but hey, priorities.

"I think it likes Natasha," he tells the billionaire. There’s a pause, an inhalation, and a noise that’s so close to a groan that Clint grins. Point to him.

"We’re so screwed," Tony says succinctly.

"You’re screwed," Clint replies cheerfully. "It likes me too."

"If it has any sense, only so it will stay in Natasha’s good graces. Pictures, Barton, I need pictures, or you are a lying liar who lies," Stark says, coming up swinging as usual, and Clint watches the dragon flick its mismatched tail with contentment while Natasha strokes its head.

Its gaze, when it turns those brilliant slit eyes on him, is alien, ancient, and knowing.

When Thor returns to the Tower, he nods without surprise upon listening to their recounting.

"Aye, there was a race of dragons on Midgard long ago, when I was but a babe. They were few in number but many in form, and lived in secret places for most of their days. When men beyond the islands began to find them out they feared they would be slaughtered, and so did my father bring them all to another realm. He did tell me stories, though," the Asgardian says thoughtfully, regarding the dragon lying uncontested and seemingly asleep on the couch, "of one who lived with a Viking tribe, and chose not to undertake the migration. For what reasons, he could not say."

The cat-like creature cracks an eye open, looking back at the demigod and the other Avengers beside him, and in its silent regard is the weight of snow-filled eons.


	2. new york

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The people of New York City (Tony Stark aside) take the idea of a dragon fairly well.

_seeing is…_  
immediately after _occupational hazards_

"I can’t believe it." Tony flicks through the grainy images Clint has sent, thumb hovering to scale up the huge creature that looms over Natasha’s shoulder. "I actually can’t believe it. Is it sad that I’m more willing to believe you and Romanoff set up an elaborate and frankly bewildering con in Sweden than consider that dragons may exist?"

"Norway, and yeah, Stark, it kind of is."

"That was a rhetorical question. Jarvis, do a scan for dragons in the records from that area. If there really were fire-breathing lizards around there, someone must have noticed. And if they were lucky, it would have been before the ‘stealing virgins and hoarding gold’ point."

"The folklore of Agents Barton and Romanoff’s location is rich in draconian references, sir. It appears the local people believe their Viking ancestors fought such creatures and modern day stories of mysterious occurrences around the islands are not unheard of."

"So basically their version of the Yeti."

"I’d say something like, ‘Only that doesn’t exist,’ but now I’m starting to wonder," Clint drawls over Tony’s earpiece. Stark resizes one of the photos, showing the dragon and Natasha both glancing over at Clint through a flurry of snow.

"Jarvis, prep the suit. There’s something scaly in the fields of Denmark."

"Yes, sir," the AI replies with the hint of a long-suffering air Tony swears he didn’t program in. But Jarvis refrains from correcting the Shakespearean reference as Tony snaps his fingers and headed towards the lab.

Barton’s amused question of “Do you have something against European geography or are you doing this on purpose?” absolutely does not kill the moment.

 

 _there is an art to flying_ , title from Douglas Adams’ Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy  
several weeks after _occupational hazards_

"You know, I thought there’d be more panicking when people realized there was a dragon in New York," Clint comments, helping himself to more of the baked oatmeal. Natasha glances up at him as she sprinkles brown sugar over her own bowl.

"It’s New York, Clint. After the Chitauri, the kraken, and whatever it was Bruce decided those creatures last month were-"

"We’re going with ‘ghouls’ for now," the scientist puts in over his newspaper.

"-I think it would take more than a single dragon to get them excited. Especially seeing as it’s not setting things on fire." They both glance at the jet-black dragon sprawled out on the balcony, for all intents and purposes completely and blissfully asleep.

"It really puts into perspective how weird our lives are when we’ve basically been adopted by a mythical creature and nobody bats an eye." Grabbing a spoon, the archer leans against the counter and stirs his breakfast as he contemplates the sun-bathing beast.

"We were adopted by another living legend first," Natasha points out, gesturing with her spoon towards the Asgardian lounging on the couch in pajamas with tiny thunderclouds on them. Said legend looks over at them with a grin while on the TV the Road Runner executes another perfect escape.

"Well, they say friends are the family you choose, so." Clint shrugs, snagging the maple syrup. "It’d just be nice to know a little bit more about him than ‘flies, breathes fire, is willing to eat fish delivered in bulk rather than people off the streets’."

"He has better manners than Stark," Natasha offers. The man in question pauses in the act of walking out with the coffee pot cradled protectively in one arm.

"I’m sorry, say what?"

"Put the coffee back, and no one gets hurt," she told him with perfect seriousness.

"It’s my kitchen, Romanoff, which makes this my coffee pot, which means I can do whatever I want with it, and if I want to take it all-"

"You’ll have a mutiny on your hands," Clint finishes, holding up his purple mug.

"Says the man who drinks straight from it if he thinks no one’s watching," Stark throws back, but sets the pot on the counter. "You spend all night fixing the Mark 50 and then tell me I don’t deserve the whole thing, you ungrateful interlopers."

"It’s ready to go?" Bruce asks, looking up over the rim of his glasses with interest.

"Yes, finally, I worked out the last warped batch of titanium from the fabricators. We’re ready to roll. Test flight at noon, chop chop."

"That’s our cue to set up the trampoline," Clint tells Natasha, who hides her smile with a spoonful of oatmeal.

"And the cameras."

"Really, that’s insulting, that’s incredibly rude, I can’t believe I let you people live in my house and drink my coffee." He snags the pot and heads towards the elevators. "Noon, my insulting little cherubs!"

Once he was gone, Clint flips open one of the cabinets and pulls a second pot of coffee out.

"When do you think he’s going to realize that’s decaf?" He asks, and the others smother laughter.

Noon arrives, bringing the Avengers and accompanying dragon to the extended balcony on the penthouse floor. The dragon watches intently as Tony rolls his shoulders, the suit’s pieces clicking with the movement.

"What do you think he’s thinking?" Sam asks, having grabbed his own flight gear for the event. His nod makes it clear which ‘him’ is being referred to.

"I don’t know. But I can tell you," Clint replies, observing the goings-on, "when Tony showed up in Norway, that… that was a big deal."

"What, our friend over there tried to eat him?"

"Yeah, no, no modern day re-enactments of St. George and Puff the Magic Dragon. No…" Clint trails off, trying to find the right words.

"It was like he saw a ghost," Natasha supplies, coming up to them with her phone in hand.

"Huh. I’d ask how a dragon looks like he’s seen a ghost, but I get the feeling there’s no good answer to that. Maybe he’d never seen a man flying before." Sam stretches, bringing an arm across his chest. "Hey Tony, we going to do this or not?"

"I’m so glad you decided to show up for a flying lesson, let me show you how it’s done." Tony’s faceplate slides shut. "Jarvis?"

"The airspace is clear for the next half-hour, sir."

"Excellent. Let’s see if you can keep up this time around, Wilson."

"Yeah, time to put your money where your mouth is, Stark." The wings of his jetpack snap open in a smooth motion as the two men straighten. Beside them, his pupils narrowing to slits and his whole body stilling, the dragon seems to forget to breathe.

"Rogers?"

The official timekeeper nods and holds up one hand as he stares at his watch.

"On your mark, get set, and… go."

They take off, launching from the balcony to begin the plummet downwards, and behind them the dragon starts and vaults off as well, arrowing after the humans. Before he can reach them, though, they engage their various boosters and angle upwards, heading for the unofficial lap course around the city. The dragon snaps his own wings out, coming to a halt as the two men flash past him; then, with a snort audible from the balcony and a shake of his head, he follows with great beats of his wings.

"You know, there was a time when I probably would have objected to using untested equipment over a city of eight million people," Steve says contemplatively as they watch the three figures twist and weave through skyscrapers.

"Then you met Stark?" Natasha asks, the words laced with her dry wit.

"Then I met New York," he answers, smiling. "Think the dragon will keep up?"

"With all due respect, Cap, it’s a dragon. I’m pretty sure we have no idea what it can do." Clint shrugs a shoulder, then glances up at the Asgardian who has been watching the proceedings, his hammer swinging loosely from his belt in case his assistance is needed. "Any guesses, Thor?"

"I know as much as you," he replies. "But if I were to guess, I would say there are many surprises yet to come. A dragon so old could know, and be capable of, many things."

"Five hundred years is a lot of time." Sliding her phone shut now that the racers are well out of viewing range, Natasha tucks it away. "And I’m going to point out that we need to figure out what his name is, or give him one. Calling him ‘it’, ‘him,’ and ‘dragon’ is going to get old after a while if he decides to stick around."

Before anyone could open their mouths, she continues. “And no, ‘Smaug’ is not an option.”

It would be hard to tell who looked more disappointed, Clint or Steve.

"Falkor?" Bruce suggests. When he has four blank looks turned on him, he chuckles. "You all really aren’t too young to have seen that, just so you know."

"I was busy being frozen in ice. And to be fair, Thor’s not from around here."

"Working for the KGB," Natasha says, shaking her head.

"They didn’t do movie nights in the circus."

"Those all sound like great excuses, but I know what we’re watching on Thursday," the scientist informs them with a smile. "Oh, here they come."

Even with the new improvements, Tony barely beats Sam onto the ‘runway’ by a hair - and both of them have to move to make room for the dragon who lands in style, looking around him with unmistakable happiness.

"Mushu."

"No," three voices chorus, and the debate rolls on.


	3. knowing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They are all connected to their pasts, however long ago, however far they go.

_old faces, familiar places_

Mankind has changed in the centuries since you lived under sloping eaves and hearth-held fires. Gone are the carved doors and arching houses, the hallowed dragons and ancestors presiding over their vaulted domains. Now flawless glass slides aside when you pad towards any opening, and soft carpet or smooth stone has replaced beaten earth and sanded wood. In the sprawling village below this longhouse, this tower, there are thousands of steeds of steel and iron. 

There are none of fire and flesh. 

But man could not choose to ride on dragonback even if he wished to, with your kind only legend and lore to him now. There are times when, circling through this foreign landscape and whisking in and out of breezes carrying thousands of unknown secrets, you wonder if your place is in legend and lore beside them.

Perhaps, though, not everything has changed. There is a moment on a sunny day when you enter the gathering hall, its people scattered to their own diversions, that brings the scent of charcoal and paper drifting past you.

The Captain looks up at your curious approach, the afternoon light falling across his dusty black fingers and shadowed face. For a moment his expression is distant, saddened, before you tilt your head and shake your frill, adding a bounce to your step. It proves the right thing to do for his tight lips curl at the edges and some of the sorrow in his eyes fades.

Some, but not all.

You pause beside his chair to study the pad of paper set on a low table before him. He picks it up carefully and angles it so you can better see, leaving smudges of charcoal fingerprints around the edges.

“It’s a drawing,” he says in a quiet, measured voice. “It’s of Bucky – someone I thought I lost, a long time ago.” Muscles play along his jaw when he swallows. “I don’t know where he is now, but I know he’s safe. I know he’s doing what he needs to.”

You study the strong features he has sketched out in gentle strokes, the blended background faded into white as if to frame the smiling man with shadows or draw him from the page in relief. Memories echo back through years long past, through years beyond count, and you look at Rogers as an old, old feeling circles through your bones.

Later, with help from the sky-voice Jarvis and the supplies of various storage rooms, you mouth the broomstick and begin to draw.

The Widow passes by in the corridor, pauses to take in the scene and slip in beside her chief. She is quiet for a moment, as observant and silent as a Night Fury in her own way, before she speaks.

“Any idea what he’s painting?”

You twist and turn, tail drifting just above the ink drying on taped-down paper.

“I think it’s someone that he used to know.”

Mankind has changed, true, but man has not. Dragonkind has left, but you have not. Perhaps that is answer enough.

From the swirling lines, caught in black curls if you looked at it just so, a freckled face grins out of the past.

 

_histories and branching trees_

Spring has arrived at long last in Central Park, turning the trees into a riotous wash of green and the walkways into a hubbub of activity. The beautiful weather and drawn-out winter cannot account for all of the visitors, however; that honor lies with the glossy black dragon lounging on a grassy knoll, as intrigued by the gawkers as they are by him.

“Tourists,” Barton mutters under his breath, one arm slung over his face. Thor is doing crowd control through his sheer presence by standing on the edge of the sidewalk and chatting easily with anyone who wishes to approach. The Asgardian, who has always taken delight in his encounters with the strange and varied humans of New York, now converses easily in All-Speak with the onlookers to keep them from nearing the dragon or fearing it has been left “unsupervised.”

Natasha, seated next to him and flipping through a magazine – Clint hasn’t gotten a good enough look to determine if it’s for fashion or side-arms – glances over at him with a raised eyebrow.

“I seem to recall you staring quite a bit that first day,” she says with subtle amusement. “At least they all have their eyebrows.”

He squints at her and shifts his arm protectively to cover the eyebrows in question that have finally grown back. “Next time someone wants to take a hostage, be my guest. Then we’ll see who gets to make beauty jabs.”

“I wouldn’t be taken hostage in the first place,” she retorts smoothly, before her gaze cuts away. Clint just begins to reply when the intensity of her focus stops him. He shifts to push himself up onto his elbows and looks for whatever has the Black Widow’s undivided attention – and the dragon’s.

The dragon, name still undetermined, has shifted from his sprawling pose to a sphinx-like position, no longer playing to the iPhones, cameras, and even iPads snapping pictures of the assembled group. Clint follows the two intent gazes to find Thor returning from the crowd with his head bent to talk with a slender woman in a business suit, an oddly heavy leather-bound case by her side. He has a moment to wonder if this could be a problem as the dragon rises, frill erect and wings half-spread – and bounds forward with surprising youthfulness, covering the distance between himself and the unknown woman in less than a breath.

He stops just in front her, every line in his sleek body curved forward. She has already halted, an unmistakable reverence in the blue eyes blinking behind thick glasses. Clint notes all of this while he rolls to his feet, in sync with his partner as they stride across the green grass to the knot of dragon and humans.

“Mørk,” the thin-faced stranger breathes, staring unashamedly at the dragon with every indication of awe. The dragon folds his wings against his sides, suddenly solemn again, and inclines his head.

As if unaware of the three Avengers watching the encounter, the woman begins to speak in Norwegian, clearly addressing the dragon – who listens, frill upright, tail swept to one side.

“This is Lise,” Thor tells his teammates, half listening to the other conversation as he fills them in. “She comes from Norway, and her family is connected to the dragon. She is calling him ‘The Dark,’ and says that in all their years, they have never seen him, and that he is more beautiful than they could have imagined. Her family wants him to know they are honored to have helped him. They had never expected he would leave the islands.”

The dragon exhales, a slow puff of breath in acknowledgment of her words, and pushes his head forward. Still in a reverie, the stranger lifts her hand and places it with hesitation, with wonder, on the fine scales of his snout. They stand there for a moment, simply breathing together, before she seems to wake and notice the Avengers’ attentions.

“Forgive me,” she says in accented English, a hint of unease or distrust in her pale eyes. “We recognized him from the metalwork on his tail.” The ingenious engineering is in full view, brilliant and red against the growing grass, and the question of how the dragon has maintained it is finally answered. “We did not understand why he left Norway, the islands, but I had to know,” and she looks back at the dragon, searching the warm green gaze, “I had to know that he did it of his own free will. That he was not being held captive.”

The dragon nudges her hand, eyes closing for a single beat, before he pulls his head back and gives what they’ve learned to recognize as his draconian equivalent of a toothless grin.

The Avengers learn over pretzels and hot dogs that her family has made his tailfins for generations, each new smith and metalworker trained in the art of its creation. How they would open their doors to find the damaged iteration on untouched snow, and would forge a new one to place in the same spot. That no one had ever seen the dragon in person, or learned more than quiet whispers from their aging relatives, but there had had been the sense during the quiet days in the forge that something protective and ancient waited in the dark woods.

In stark contrast to the gloried and rumored presence of Lise’s stories, the dragon scarfs down offered bits of hot dog buns and lounges on the grass with such relaxed happiness that Lise’s own protective nature seems contented. He steals Thor’s frozen lemonade while they’re discussing how the dragon came to New York to begin with, inches towards Natasha’s cinnamon-sugar pretzel until she tugs it out of reach without even glancing at him, and sprawls beside Lise in the afternoon sunshine while the humans speak.

“I brought this,” Lise says finally, drawing the heavy briefcase in front of her. She dials a code into the lock and unfastens the snaps on the lid, opening it for their inspection. Inside lie gleaming replicates of the dragon’s tailfin, every piece carefully sorted on red velvet. “In case he wished to stay, so he would not need to make the journey back without a tail.” Her lips quirk before she looks at the dragon over her glasses. “In case he was happy.”

The dragon shakes his head, rattling his frill, and gently butts his head against her shoulder. It is the nearest form to thanks the Avengers have found that he offers, and Lise seems to understand it instinctively. Her eyes fill with tears before she blinks rapidly and lays her hand carefully, so very carefully, on his broad head.

They stay that way in the New York sun, dragon and engineer, and in their touch is a connection across snow-driven centuries and winding family trees.

Before she leaves they ask Lise what ‘protector’ would be in Old Norse, in the language of the dragon’s time. She thinks, murmuring with Thor, and writes a word down on the back of a snow cone wrapper in neat penmanship.

Natasha carries her answer back in her pocket, hand tucked around the thin piece of paper, and smooths it out on the coffee table for the impromptu family meeting.

_Véurr._


	4. flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is falling, and there is flight. Mankind is still good at both.

_for envy of the birds_ ; warning for canon-typical fight violence 

“There’s a line in here about this place give rise to you and then these things, Cap,” Clint comments into his comm as he pulls another arrow from his quiver and searches for the vulnerable spot on his target, “but I can’t quite put my thumb on it.”

He releases the arrow to let it fly straight and true, burying the explosive tip in the pinprick of exposed skin below the insectoid’s armor. It jerks to a halt in the air, giving Falcon just enough time to spin out of its reach, and splatters into a hundred pieces over the disused structures of the closed Camp Lehigh.

“I’m sure you have other things to keep your hands busy, Hawkeye,” Steve throws back while he plants his feet and uses the edge of his shield to decapitate one of the numerous monsters emerging from the ground. Véurr’s shadow races over him and across the uneven grass as the dragon wheels to dive at another insect, his teeth and claws proving surprisingly effective against the varied enemies. “Stark, any idea on where they’re coming from?”

“The belly of the beast?” Over Clint’s head Tony swerves and blasts a creature homing in on his back. “My scans aren’t turning up anything. The only thing that doesn’t match the original camp blueprints is that bunker which, conveniently enough, has walls Jarvis can’t see past. The two _might_ be connected.”

“Army records don’t have any mention of that bunker being built before the camp was decommissioned.” As much as he loves his bow, Clint can’t help but be slightly envious of the high-caliber rounds Rhodey’s machine gun is spitting, a knot of furiously buzzing monsters going down as their chitinous armor is shredded. “The inspectors were getting ready to put in a call about that when these things started popping up.”

“Like daisies!” Tony quips. “Hulk, feel like opening up a can of worms?”

In response the Hulk roars, squashing the insects around him into the ground, and charges for the bunker. The doors never stood a chance.

A wave of movement on the ground catches Clint’s eye. in a single moment the hoard of dirt-covered insectoids that reached the surface turn their attention entirely onto the Hulk. One of them goes down with Natasha’s baton sticking out of its eye. She grabs the baton back and spins to the side to stab another one as Clint picks a third to take out. “Incoming, big guy!” A bloodied lip and the slight hitch to her breathing are the only signs she gives of her tangle with a rolly-polly-like behemoth earlier. The fact that the creatures are more interested in the flying competition than the Avengers on the ground has been both a help and a hindrance in the battle.

“War Machine, Thor, thin out the crowd,” snaps Steve, putting his own words into action. An enormous bolt of lightning strikes the melee a split second later, frying many of the tumbling insects as they swarm towards the bunker, and Rhodey sweeps around the edges of the concrete, guns blazing. What roofing the bunker had is now so much rubble, shattered and thrown at the mass of chittering monsters with an accompanying snarl by the Hulk. Clint’s privately glad that the administration building he’s perched on is just out of range. “Stark, are you getting anything now?”

“Looks like there’s an underground space below it. Energy signature says there’s some kind of portal down there, no Mama Monster. Anyone want to go take a look?”

“Be my guest.” Off to his left, Sam kicks off the beetle-esque creature he slammed into seconds earlier and wings away before the grenade detonates, heading for where Véurr is tangled with a hornet with overgrown ambitions. “I’m feeling like this is a case for the exterminators. Strange can get a trace off of the bodies, right? He doesn’t need the portal itself?”

“That’s what he’s said.” The bow hums beneath Clint’s hands as he goes for another arrow, only to come up empty-handed. “I’m out, so I’m voting personally for a complete fumigation.”

“And I have just the thing. Remember that Ex-Wife, Rhodey?”

“You’re never going to let me forget that.”

“You went with Hammertech over me. Of course not. Cap?”

“Do it.”

Clint nearly misses the exchange, ducking as he is to avoid a mutated dragonfly that’s realized he’s defenseless. He grabs his back-up Sig and takes it out with a shot to the head, fracturing the multi-faceted crystals of its bug eyes, then scans the sky for any more ambitious insects.

“Heads up, Hulk!” As the green Avenger huffs and plunges over the remaining wall with what Clint might be tempted to call a grumble, Tony hovers in mid-air and sets off a small missile from his shoulder. It punches through the exposed elevator shaft and whistles downward, vanishing from sight. “Aaaand… now.”

The earth shakes, shivering like a frightened animal, and flames erupt from not just the elevator shaft but the burrow entrances littering the ground. The insects keen but fail to conveniently drop dead - apparently that was a one-time thing. Instead they redouble their efforts to maim and munch on any nearby humans, and this time their attention isn't focused only escaping into the sky. Clint just catches several someones cursing over the comm as the admin building trembles.

He has a second to close his eyes and hope, and then something in the foundation starts to give.

“Aw, c’mon, are you serious?” He grabs his bow and the grappling arrow he always keeps in reserve, knowing it’s going to do him no good if the building comes down on top of him. “Stark, how far did that chamber go?”

“Not that far, why?”

“Because it went far enough! Anyone want to give me a lift?” Already the roof is starting to pitch under his feet as he runs for the opposite corner, feeling the beams and bricks shudder beneath him. He can just catch the airborne Avengers being swarmed by buzzing clouds of monsters when he hits as far as he can go. It’s not far enough.

“Hold, Barton," Thor says through gritted teeth. "But a moment more-"

The corner of the building closest to the bunker collapses.

“Sorry, no time.” He notches the grappling arrow and takes aim at the much lower barracks in front of him. This isn’t going to be fun.

The second the grapple makes contact, he jumps just in time to feel the roof slant nearly vertical. He braces for the unforgiving impact - and a black shadow comes out of nowhere, curling around him just as the loose line of the grapple begins to go taut.

They hit the ground with a bone-shaking thud, the impact rattling Clint’s teeth until they feel like they're going to come out of his skull. He’s had far worse landings, though, and by all rights this should have been one of them.

Then Véurr unfolds his wings, letting daylight into the darkness that cocoons Clint, and looks down at him from an odd angle. The dragon has taken the brunt of the landing, twisting to hit the ground on his back so Clint's impact was cushioned, folding his wings around him to keep him safe.

“Thanks,” Clint manages to say, rolling off the dragon’s belly and wing, and Véurr exhales. They get to their feet with only some shaking, leaning against each other to take a breather and recover. Apparently no one thinks they're dead because in Clint’s ear Natasha is cursing at him steadily in Russian, a sure sign he’s going to pay for that stunt later. He grins. “That could have gone better.”

The dragon nudges his elbow with his head in silent acknowledgment. When the Hulk roars from the other side of the ruined building, followed by Sam’s exasperated, “Why won’t they just give up already?”, the two look at each other.

“Sounds like our cue.”

Véurr bounds over the overgrown lawn and leaps into the sky, heading for the mass of creatures still pestering Sam, and Clint heads for the Quinjet. Spare quivers are beautiful, beautiful things.

When the monsters are vanquished Rhodey thanks them on behalf of the US military, Thor hangs onto the severed head of something like a giant ant for Strange, and the Avengers bow out as local firefighters arrive to torch the corpses.

Clint guides the Quinjet home as the exhausted superheroes take stock, talking longingly of showers and arguing over pizza orders. There's a dark shadow running over the Hudson ahead of them when they reach the river, rippling and dancing on the water’s surface, and Clint doesn't have to look up from the cockpit to know who it is. Véurr's keeping watch over them, as he watched over the islands, as they think he once watched over villages and people on a little spit of land off Norway.

Two weeks later Véurr plants himself beside Clint on the apartment complex roof he's on, spitting fireballs and tackling red-eyed robots that make themselves easy targets. When Tony crashes into the street Clint snags his grappling arrow and slots it back into his quiver, turning to the dragon next to him. Véurr grabs his vest, snaps his wings out, and launches them both into a swift spiral to the other Avenger. 

It is, all things considered, one of the better ways he’s found for getting down from his perches.

Still doesn’t stop Natasha from chewing him out, though.

 

_downbeat_

You have not forgotten how this started, all those centuries ago. The wind on your scales, the sun on your back, the sky so blue it almost seemed endless. And it was, when you shared it with the laughing human who had no wings to catch him, no fire to protect him, no fear but pure joy in his chest and the knowledge you flew beside him, every wing-beat of the way.

She laughs beside you now, this red-haired woman with a Viking’s spirit, diving through the sky as gracefully as she dances. There are no wings on her back like the Falcon’s, no fire in her palms like the Iron Man, no fear but pure joy in her heart and the knowledge that you fly beside her, every wing-beat of the way.

Natasha falls, a blue sky embracing her as she releases every illusion of control, and you tuck your wings and fall alongside her through a summer sky that’s endless.


End file.
